


Call and Answer

by Ttime42



Series: Help from my Friends AU [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Bruises, Fluff, Happy Ending, Injury, Jewelry, Light Angst, M/M, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Not a casefic, Nudity, Sweet, Theft, Well not really, lots of fluff, part of a series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-08-24 14:22:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8375533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ttime42/pseuds/Ttime42
Summary: Sherlock gets hurt and John comes running because that's what people desperately in love do.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a oneshot set in the "A Little Help from my Friends" AU. It takes place sometime after that story. There's not much BDSM here, as them having a 'scene' wouldn't have really fit. Fair warning, this is a really soft and fluffy one. I haven't posted anything in forever and I'm excited to finally be adding something new! Enjoy!

Sherlock Holmes didn't usually make a habit of purchasing stolen jewelry in dark, moldy warehouses, but tonight he was making an exception. The 'Barsanti Brothers,' as the media had named them, were responsible for a 9 month long string of jewel heists across the city. It was a stupid name‒the pair weren't even related, any idiot could see that. Joel Barsanti was one half of the duo, but his counterpart was a female friend or lover named Dee. Jewelry shop security footage showed them wearing face masks, but it was obvious (to him, anyway) from the shape of her head that she was female.

Sherlock was wearing his black Gucci suit, dark grey shirt, and fine black leather shoes. A black beanie was pulled over his hair and he'd purposely let his stubble run wild to complete the disguise. His character was a dominant stock trader with more money than sense. He was attempting to appear wealthy enough to purchase multi-carat stolen diamonds, but new enough to a life of crime to be a bit naive about the whole thing.

The warehouse roof was caved in at random spots throughout. A spidery string of catwalks criss-crossed the shadows above them. This place had probably once been a bustling factory. There was a second story overhang area that had a wall of broken windows facing the main floor of the factory. Big bosses likely stood up there in their cushioned offices and surveyed the scurrying workers below. No more. This place had been abandoned by humans for ages and now housed rats, cats, and strays. He stood beside a patch of dying evening sun shining through to the floor like a spotlight. Dee, also dressed in dark clothes, pulled open a purple velvet bag with gloved hands. She extracted the emerald and gold necklace and held it into the light. It sparkled.

"How much you say?" Sherlock asked, fidgeting a little as he eyed the shining stones. Joel lurked in the background, listening but not participating.

"Fifty thousand." Her voice was firm but shook at the edges. Her fingers trembled as she held the necklace in a delicate grip. She'd recently had a hit of meth, that much was obvious. The habit was brand new and Sherlock knew she wouldn't last long as a thief if she started down that particular path.

"Bit steep." He said. "This is what, fifteen carats?"

"Eighteen." She told him. "Pulled it two days ago."

_Which was likely when you tried meth for the first time._

He admired the gems again, making a show of thinking about it. "I, ah, you know, I just don't know."

"We got other buyers. You ain't the only one." Dee pulled the necklace out of the light and lifted her chin, looking him blazingly in the eye despite her five foot four height. The real reason he was in this dank and dingy rathole warehouse at all was so that he could talk to Dee. Her older sister, a smart submissive named Mel, had rang 221's doorbell a week ago with a case….

_"It's my sister, Mr. Holmes."_

_Melissa Gerin-Lajoie sat poised in the client's chair, facing the crackling hearth. Her navy business suit was tailored and fine and she wore a bright silver necklace with matching diamond earrings. Her brunette hair was styled and sensible and she radiated an air of professional calm. She reminded John a bit of Anthea, minus the phone. "I'm an environmental lawyer," she said when John asked when she did for a living. Sherlock of course knew already. "And…" she hesitated, "a submissive." She paused again. "As far as my colleagues and partners know, I'm a dominant. There is a sort of 'don't flaunt your dynamic' mentality about the whole profession. People in my world, unfortunately, see submissives as weak and incapable." She slid her eyes to Sherlock and gave him a playful smile. "More fool them."_

_The side of Sherlock's mouth had gone up in a grin and he liked her immediately._

_"Would you like some coffee?" John asked her._

_"If it's not too much trouble."_

_"Sherlock?"_

_"No, no."_

_John went into the kitchen and Sherlock leaned forward in his green chair, elbows on knees and hands steepled. "What about your sister, Ms. Gerin-Lajoie?"_

_"Call me Mel, please."_

_John came back and handed her a cup of coffee. She accepted it, squeezing her brown leather driving gloves nervously in her other hand. "Thank you, doctor." She nodded to John and sipped. The liquid seemed to fortify her. "I haven't seen her in a month. She was supposed to go back to Uni in the autumn but she just…disappeared one day."_

_"Did you go to the police?" John asked, seated in his red armchair with his own cup of coffee._

_"I did. They got nowhere. I hired a private detective, but he didn't find anything either." She looked back to Sherlock. "I saw your website and your success rate and thought, why not? I like that you're a sub with your own business." She added, looking him in the eye. "You're smart. Maybe you'll get somewhere."_

He certainly had. He'd agreed to take the case, promising John he would do nothing dangerous until his doctor got back from visiting Harry in Paris, France.

_"Don't do anything ridiculous while I'm gone, like blow up the place or gas yourself. I'll be back in a five days unless Harry get in one of her moods, in which case I'll be back in two."_

Three days after seeing John off to the airport, Sherlock had located Deandra Gerin-Lajoie. That she was caught up in this kind of thievery nonsense was something of a pleasant surprise and bumped the case from a rather dull 4 to a satisfying 6. He wanted to make absolutely sure this thief _was_ Mel's straight-laced little submissive sister who got good grades and played football on occasion and dabbled at the trumpet before telling the lawyer anything. When he'd agreed to investigate, he expected to come up with a body and the usual bad news about a young life cut tragically short and he could tell that's what Mel was expecting as well. "Good girl turned druggie jewel thief" hadn't been on anyone's radar.

Dee had the same eyes as her sister, big and deep brown. Up close, he could tell she was a match to the photo Mel had given him, though Dee had dyed her hair a startling blonde. She  stared at him with iron hard eyes. "Well?"

"Ah hell, I guess." Sherlock-the-buyer rubbed his hand over his beanie. "Will you take a cheque?"

That question was his code for Lestrade and his team, hunkered down outside, to move in.

In theory it was completely straightforward. On paper the plan worked perfectly. In reality however…

"Coppers!" A voice from the catwalks above them yelled. Sherlock looked up, alarmed. They had a lookout? Dee took off like a bird startled by a shot and headed for the concrete stairs that lead up to the overhang area. Sherlock darted after her at a dead run. He was not going to let her get away. This silly case had gone on far too long. By catching Dee, he would not only solve Mel's case, but put the Barsanti Brothers (honestly) out of business. Her feet slammed the stairs as she ascended. She was in trainers made for running, not fine leather shoes like him. He leaped up two steps at a time, gaining ground. Behind him, people shouted and scuffled and he distinctly heard Donovan shout, "get down and stay there!" It sounded like the coppers had caught Joel and that he was putting up a fight.

Dee hit the top landing and turned the corner. She glanced back at Sherlock and kept running. He pounded up behind her, started to run, and skidded to a halt. A scraggly, lanky man with greasy hair was pointing a gun at his face. Both hands clutched the gun and he was trembling slightly. Another addict. Dee was still running and heading straight for a window illuminated with a brilliant orange and gold sunset that likely had a fire escape on the other side.

Sherlock tried to push past the guy‒likely the look out and meth supplier. "You really think so?" The guy cocked the gun, arms still outstretched. Sherlock stepped back. _Stupid!_ He chided himself. He hadn't even thought to consider a look out. He didn't think they would be so suspicious.

"Dee!" He yelled. "Melissa is looking for you!" He caught a glimpse of her slowing down before he was shoved. The greasy guy suddenly slammed him into the solid concrete wall beside the stairs and Sherlock coughed, the wind knocked out of him. Greasy advanced on him and Sherlock heard Dee shout something. Again the man held the gun up and Sherlock leaped forward, tackling him around the middle. Greasy twisted in midair like a writhing snake and both of them tumbled arse over teakettle down the flight of concrete steps.

* * *

"Sherlock, just let me see‒"

"No!" Sherlock pulled away from Lestrade and turned around, hugging himself as the flashing police car lights strobed behind. His back was frankly killing him. The tumble down the stairs left a trail of wounded skin and pride in its wake for both parties. Greasy was succinctly handcuffed and Lestrade had shouted for paramedics. Sherlock had no idea what happened to Dee.

He closed his eyes. His brain was buzzing and nausea roiled through his stomach from the adrenaline of the chase and roll down the concrete corners. A cool breeze chilled him and he wished for his Belstaff, hanging in the flat. He didn't anticipate that this venture would take so long. He crouched on the ground, wanting John's warm capable fingers and soothing voice. He pulled out his phone and tapped the button. The screen remained blank. Dead. He swore and shoved it back in his pocket

He heard Lestrade on the phone behind him.

"He's shaken. He's probably hurt‒he fell down like thirty stairs." Silence. "He won't let me. No….I tried. Yeah…no. Okay." Footsteps got closer behind him and then, "Sherlock?" A phone appeared in the detective's line of vision. "John for you."

Sherlock unfolded himself enough to take the phone and he pressed it up to his ear. "Hi." His voice was sullen.

_"What happened?"_ John sounded worried and nearly out of breath. _"You fell down stairs? Lestrade said you might be hurt."_

"Are you still in Paris?" He wished his voice wasn't so raw and whiny.

_"Yes. I'm coming home though. I'm heading to the airport right now, love."_

Sherlock closed his eyes. John was coming back but he'd be hours yet. Paris may as well be Neptune.

"When will you be home?"

_"I'll catch the next flight out. Are you bleeding? Talk to me."_

He felt better already after just hearing his dom's voice. It sounded like John was outside.

"I tussled with one of their people and fell down a flight of steps." He didn’t want to include all the details. No reason for John to know he'd had a gun pointed in his face. "It's not bad." He lied.

_"It sounds bad. Let the paramedics look you over."_ John's voice was firm. _"Go in for x-rays if they tell you to. Do what they say, Sherlock, please?"_

Tears burned at his eyes and he angrily blinked them away before Lestrade could see. What the hell was he crying for? He'd endured far worse. He'd endured far worse without John in his life. He was tired, he was hurting. He hadn't seen John in three days and wanted to curl up on his dom's lap and sleep. Sherlock was quiet and he heard John say _'Charles de Gaulle, please'_ to someone before a car door was slammed.

_"You still there?"_ John asked.

"Yes."

_"Do you want to spend the night with Mike or downstairs with Mrs. Hudson, or, or somewhere? I don’t want you alone right now."_

Sherlock thought about this. He didn't want to be with Mrs. Hudson. She would dote and worry and get on his nerves. Mike…? He didn't want to go there. He didn't want to be with a submissive. A dominant then. Mycroft? Lord no. Lestrade?....Hm. Yes, the officer's flat with the old sofa and green blanket and musky dom smell sounded good. Sherlock wanted to be near a dom he knew. Would John let him or would he be jealous? The last thing he wanted was a Defensive episode.

"I'd…I think I want to go to Lestrade's. Will you let me if he says yes?" Sherlock realized on some level how submissive he was feeling right now. He'd never ask John for permission of all things otherwise.

_"Yes, of course,_ " John assured him. _"I'm sure he will. Can you put him back on? Promise me you'll see the paramedics. Demand a sub if you'd be more comfortable, legally they have to comply."_

"Okay. I miss you. I love you."

" _I love you too. I'll see you before you know it, alright?"_

Sherlock hummed and yelled for Lestrade. He already felt a bit better. John was coming home and he wasn't going to be alone tonight. Good. Yes.

Greg came by and took his phone. "Hello?"

" _Hey, Greg. Would you mind terribly if Sherlock spent the night at your flat? If it's too imposing, I understand completely. This is really last minute."_

Greg blinked in surprise. John wanted his injured, beloved, _collared_ sub husband to stay with _him_? Another dom? He swallowed, remembering how violent John's Defense could get.

"Uh, of course, John. Are you alright with that?" He scratched the back of his head.

_"Yes certainly. Sherlock wants to go to yours."_

"I'd be happy to have him. He hasn’t been over in an age."

_"Great. Thanks, Greg. And don't be afraid to take control. Order him about if need be. If he's in pain he might be snappy but you know how to handle him."_

"Yes. I understand."

Sherlock listened, still crouched on the ground. Lestrade was standing above him, going "uh-huh" and "sure" a lot. "I'll leave it unlocked….it's no problem, really. Okay. Goodbye." He clicked the phone off.

"Come on, up now." Lestrade's voice was gruff, his 'commanding' tone that he used with submissive witnesses to put them at ease and get them to open up. Sherlock gingerly got to his feet and Greg steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock's suit coat was ripped on the left side, the fine fabric coated with bits of debris. The grey shirt underneath was intact but marred and scratched. Greg could see dark spots of blood staining the cloth.

They walked over to the ambulance and Lestrade asked for a submissive medic. A man and woman came forward and helped Sherlock clamber up into the ambulance. He sat stiff on a gurney, his face pinched in discomfort as the medics efficiently peeled his coat and shirt away. One of them closed the door for privacy and Greg stood there waiting with his arms crossed. John was probably in a right state. His husband was hurt and bleeding with potentially broken bones and he wasn't even in the country. Greg thought of John telling him to take charge and keep it and the officer hoped John would have the foresight to take a suppressant before coming into his flat. He hoped Sherlock wasn't too badly hurt.

The door popped open. Sherlock was dressed again and looking even more haggard and sleepy than before. "You'll get some bruising, sir." The male medic said. "Icing the area tonight will help reduce swelling. We'll give you enough vicodin to get you through tomorrow. Following up with your GP is a good idea."

"Does he need x-rays?" Greg asked.

"If you'd like." The female medic said. "Nothing felt broken when we palpated the area, but it's up to you."

"No X-rays." Sherlock stood up. "I've been prodded and abused enough for one night." He stood up and wished airplanes could fly faster as he strode towards Lestrade's car, trying and failing to feel like nothing at all was wrong.

"Sherlock, maybe you should‒"

"No, Lestrade!" He snarled.

Greg held his hand up, palms out in surrender. He'd get Sherlock to his flat in one piece and make sure he was tucked up in bed and as comfortable as he could be, but that was it. "Thanks." He said to the medics.

Donovan assured him she had the scene in hand and Greg turned all his attention to Sherlock, standing moodily by the car. "Where's Dee?" He asked.

"Who?"

"The other half of the Barsanti Brothers." Sherlock told him.

"Oh, we got 'em both‒and the bloke from the stairs."

Sherlock nodded. The case was more or less solved, and he took some small satisfaction from that. "You're coming to mine tonight?" Greg came up to him, pulling keys out of his pocket.

Sherlock glanced at him and looked away. He wanted to make no more decisions tonight. "Yes."

"Perfectly fine. I still have some of that coffee you like."

Sherlock smiled softly and they got into the car. Sherlock stretched out on his belly on the long leather backseat since it was easier on his aching back and bum. Greg slipped into the driver's seat and slammed the door closed and eyed his charge. "Let's just go to mine. If you didn't look half dead I'd say we could pick up some clothes, but I'm sure I have something you can wear." Lestrade's flat was a twenty minute drive and they made the trip quickly. It was getting late and not many people were out.

They used the lift and walked down the narrow, clean corridor to Greg's flat. He unlocked his door. They stepped inside and he flipped on the light, illuminating the slightly shabby yet comfortable space. A brown leather chair and squashy sofa faced each other and a small television was on a side table. Some laundry was piled on one side of the sofa and there were a couple mugs and glasses on the small table in front of it. Sherlock inhaled the musky, vaguely cinnamon-and-sweat scent of Greg's flat. His dom smell was a little spicier than John's but was still satisfying and familiar.

Greg kicked off his shoes and hung his coat on a hook by the door. "Take my bed. I insist," he added before Sherlock could protest. "You had a gun pointed in your face, fell down a concrete staircase, and are bruised to hell. C'mon, with me. I'm not going to argue with you." He went down to the hallway to his small bedroom. Sherlock followed behind on tired feet. He hadn't even bothered to remove his suit jacket or shoes. The officer flipped a wall switch, making a little white lamp at the bedside cast a pool of beige light across the double bed. He hastily drew the cocoa colored duvet up over sheets that had last been washed at I-can't-remember-when o'clock. A few mismatched socks and some pants littered the floor and he kicked several aside. Lestrade opened a drawer and found a clean Tshirt. He tossed it on the bed. He picked a black and red plaid blanket off the floor and shook it out, then laid it across the foot of the bed.

"There's a toothbrush in the drawer in the loo." Greg said. He looked at Sherlock, slumped against the doorjamb like a corpse and staring longingly at the bed. He looked ready to fall on his face. "Or you could just change and sleep."

Sherlock pulled off his suit coat and let it splay in the doorway. The drugs were kicking in and numbing the worst of the pain and making him dead tired. He dropped to the edge of the bed like a sack of flour, wincing only a little, and fumbled the buttons on his gray shirt.

"Let me." Lestrade leaned down in front of him, easing the buttons apart and sliding the scraped up, bloody shirt off. He tossed it on the coat and then unfolded the fresh Tshirt. Greg saw the faint long line of bruising beside his spine and bandages covering his ribs. Tomorrow was going to be rough. Sherlock snatched the Tshirt from him with a slight scowl and managed to get it over his head, minding the bandages. He reached for his trousers.

"Pass out on your stomach." Greg said. "I'll put ice packs on your back for the swelling." Greg went out to the kitchen. John had told him to do whatever necessary to keep Sherlock comfortable, and Greg appreciated the trust the dom was placing in him. He vividly remembered a Defensive John beating a serial killer unconscious and Greg didn't want to do a damn thing to provoke that wrath. He opened his freezer and moved a frozen pizza and an ice tray aside and found two blue ice packs. He wrapped them in tea towels and stopped at the hall closet enroute back to the bedroom to pick up the sage colored blanket Sherlock liked to use when he slept here. He tucked it under his arm.

Sherlock was curled on top of the covers, hugging Greg's pillow. His trousers had been tossed on the floor and he'd brought his bare knees towards his chest. He was already almost asleep.

"Get on your stomach." Greg told him. "Lemme cover you." He was just in his white pants and the Tshirt. He would freeze even without the ice that was going to cool his bruises. Sherlock groaned in protest. "I need to get this ice on there, Sherlock. It'll slow the swelling."

Sherlock groaned again but stretched his legs and rolled onto his belly. "There we go, it'll be cold." Lestrade placed the ice and Sherlock shifted, grunting at the temperature change. Greg threw the sage blanket over him. He hoped the ice packs wouldn't break in the night and get Sherlock and his mattress all wet. "Alright?" He asked.

"Mmm." Sherlock hummed into the pillow.

Greg turned off the light and tossed the trousers and ruined shirt on his dresser. He picked up the suit coat, found the dead phone in the pocket, and laid the coat on the dresser before going back out to the kitchen. He stifled a yawn and plugged the phone into his own charger by the microwave. He wasn't tired. He looked at his watch. Not even midnight. He made a cup of herbal tea and sat in front of the telly. He jumped through the channels until his thumb was sore and ended up settling on _Antiques Roadshow._

His phone rang.

"Hey, John." Greg muted the television.

_"Hi Greg, I'm in line to board the plane."_ The line was crackly and a female French voice sounded over the airport loudspeaker. _"Should be landing in London around 1:30."_

"Great. I'll leave the door unlocked."

_"How is he?"_

"Asleep." Greg told John about speaking to the medics and bringing him back home. "His phone died. I plugged it in."

John sighed and Greg heard the _beep_ as the gate attendant scanned his boarding pass and wished him a good flight.  _"I gotta go."_ John said.

"Don't worry." Greg told him. "He's asleep and safe."

_"Thanks a million, Greg. I, uh, I got some suppressants too, so that shouldn't be an issue. I'll be there soon."_

* * *

John paid the cab driver and got out of the car in front of Lestrade's building, setting his suitcase on the pavement and striding inside, pulling the case along behind with one hand while with the other he dashed out a text on his phone:

_Downstairs. Be up in a sec._

He pocketed the phone and stepped into the lift, pushing for the third floor. He slumped against the wall as the doors closed and sighed. He had no idea how bad the damage was. Sherlock wasn't in hospital so maybe it wasn't too terrible. Knowing his sub, he likely _should_ be in hospital. Thirty concrete steps would do a number on anyone. He opened and closed his fist.

He knew this would spark Defense and he didn't fancy going into another dom's territory when his sub was injured. He'd found a shop at Charles DeGaulle and bought some Defense suppressants before the flight. He didn't read the label because he was so worried about Sherlock, and thus, didn't know the pills needed to be taken with food.

He had a headache and stomachache the whole flight over and once he landed at Heathrow he managed to choke down a two-day old donut from the only shop open at half one in the morning in an attempt to calm his angry stomach. It sat like a sugary rock in his belly and he was tired and irritable. They'd imposed terribly on the officer.

Lestrade was starting to doze in his chair when the front door clicked and John pushed inside.

"Oh, sorry." John said. "I woke you."

"I wasn't asleep." Greg stood up and stretched. John looked frazzled. His eyes were red and tired and his hair was a nest. Even his wrinkled, rumpled clothes looked exhausted. He set his bag aside and glanced around.

"He's in my room. Down the hall. Loo's to the left if you need it."

"Thanks, Greg." John raked a hand through his hair, adding to the nest look. "I'll just get him up and we'll go."

"No, John, stay. He's been out for hours already. Let him sleep as long as he needs."

John stared at him, horrified at how imposing this idea was.

"Both of you take my bed." Greg shrugged. "I'll take the sofa." He glanced at the sofa, currently occupied by unwashed clothes. One shove and it'd be clear.

"Greg, that's‒thank you."

"You're welcome. Go," Greg shooed him towards the room.

"Thanks, Greg." John went to the loo and washed up a bit. He didn't have anything clean in his bag and he'd brushed his teeth at the airport. He wasn't sure how much he'd sleep anyway. He dried his hands and slowly opened the bedroom door. He relaxed at the sight of his sub nestled under the blankets. He pushed the door closed and gingerly crept across the pitch black room to the bed. His leg bumped the edge of it and he knelt up on the mattress, turning his phone light on. He moved the blankets and melted ice packs and lifted his shirt to assess. Lavender stained his sub's back and shoulder. A few pink scratches were sliced across his ribs. Some other areas were covered by white bandages. Sherlock stirred and murmured and John dropped the shirt. He crawled up and lay down beside him.

"Hey, love." He whispered. He smoothed some hair off Sherlock's forehead and the sub cracked open one eye. His face crinkled in a smile. "John." He mumbled. He scooted closer and John lay on his back, allowing Sherlock to crawl up onto his chest. He whimpered at the stiffness in his muscles and John squeezed his scruff and stroked his head. Sherlock let out a gusty, content sigh and went to sleep at once, clutching John's shirt.

* * *

The wonderful scents of eggs and toast and coffee had Greg blinking awake the next morning. He was sprawled on his too-short sofa with a narrow afghan thrown over his body and he listened to the noises in the kitchen: pans clanking and food sizzling. He vaguely heard two male voices and he sat up. He rubbed his face and staggered to his feet, then stretched and wandered into the kitchen.

"Morning, Greg." John was manning the stove, cooking up sausages and beans. Greg's mouth watered.

"Hey, guys." He walked towards the freshly filled coffee pot, trying not to stare too obviously. Sherlock was on his knees on the bunched up rug beside the stove. He had a cup of coffee in his hand and was wearing an unfamiliar wrinkled blue Tshirt and some loose cream-colored pajama bottoms. Greg wondered where on earth he'd found them before realizing that they were likely John's. The detective looked a bit haggard around the eyes, but he seemed content enough. John, in the same clothes he'd arrived in last night, flipped the sausages and held a piece of toast slathered in jam out to his sub. Sherlock bit off a corner and John put the piece on a plate, watching him with hands on his hips as he chewed. Sherlock stared at the vicinity of John's knees. Greg had never seen the detective like this. Kneeling. Being hand-fed. _Submissive_. Greg had never seen him so pliant and soft. It was because John was here, he knew. He felt privileged that they were comfortable enough to show him this side of their relationship. He poured milk in his coffee (strong enough to walk. John knew what he was doing) and smiled, letting out a long, breathy "ahhhh" as the heat filled his belly.

"Need help?" He turned around and glanced hungrily at the food.

"Nah. This is a 'thank you' breakfast. Sit." John pointed at the table with the spatula and Greg obeyed, settling down and enjoying his coffee. "Does this bother you?" John asked suddenly. "Him kneeling on your floor?"

Greg looked into the worried faces of his friends and shook his head. "Not at all."

"Okay, whew." John poked at the sizzling sausages. "I know not everyone is into…" He gestured to Sherlock, "this." John smiled at his sub with pride and love beaming off his face.

"I wish I could get some of the rookies at work to obey me so well." He sipped his coffee and looked at Sherlock. He gave Greg a pleased, haughty smile and sipped his coffee. Greg snorted. "Never seen a kneeling sub look so smug."

John rolled his eyes. "Tell me about it. He has it down to an art form."

There was a friendly silence for a moment and John spoke again. "You caught the bastards, right?" His teeth were grit. "The ones who hurt him?" Sherlock tilted his head back to look up at his dom.

"Yep." Greg nodded. "All three in custody. They're on the agenda for today. No harm in letting everyone sit in the cells overnight and think about things."

"Good." John clenched and opened his left hand, staring down at Sherlock. "Good."

"Dee's sister Mel is my client." Sherlock said to Greg. "She's been looking for her."

"Oh." Greg blinked. "We'll let Mel know."

"I've already texted her." Sherlock sounded slightly bored.

"Ah. How's your back?" Greg asked, regarding the kneeling man. He wasn't sure what, if any, rules they had while Sherlock knelt. Some doms didn't want their subs talking while they knelt but Sherlock had already trod that ground. And anyway, Greg reasoned this was his own damn flat and he would talk to anyone he wanted to.

"Sore." Sherlock said, clearing his throat. He shifted on his knees and cradled the mug. "The medication is helping but it makes me annoyingly sleepy."

"Good." Greg nodded and John cut a slice off the cooked sausage. He blew on it to cool it down and held it out to his sub. Sherlock tilted his head and picked it delicately off John's hand and chewed, chasing it with more coffee. He shivered and John rested his clean hand in his hair, shushing him softly.

Greg grabbed a week old newspaper and unfolded it. He felt like he was intruding on them, even though this was his place. Sherlock was always so holier-than-thou in front of all the yarders. It was like a different person was kneeling here on the rug, looking up at John like the sun rose and set on him. Greg glanced at John. It appeared the feeling was mutual. If he could find someone that would look at him even half as sweetly as Sherlock was staring at John, he could die happy.

"Almost done." John wiped his fingers on a tea towel and tossed it over his shoulder. He piled sausages and beans and eggs and tomatoes and toast in a plate and put it on the table in front of Greg.

"Wow, what service." He picked up the fork and took a bite of the soft yellow eggs and sweet fried tomatoes. It was utterly delicious. "You should spend the night at my flat after every case if it means I'll get this." He winked at John and Sherlock rolled his eyes. Greg shoveled some beans onto the toast and into his mouth. "You could open a breakfast place with this."

"What do you think?" John looked down at Sherlock and ran fingers through his hair. The sub looked up at him with a soft expression. "Should I work part time at Speedy's?"

"If you must." Sherlock put the mug up on the counter and stood, wincing and bracing himself on the edge to lever up.

"I knew it would be hard for you." John's voice was concerned and irritated.

"The kneeling doesn't aggravate my back." Sherlock turned away from him and rolled his rounded shoulders. "The _moving_ does."

John pursed his lips, then stole Sherlock's coffee cup and drank.

"Does it look worse today?" Greg asked around a mouthful.

Sherlock made an amused noise, then turned and lifted his shirt.

"Holy shit." Greg blinked at the vivid violet and blue marks. The left side of his back was stained from hip to scapula.

"Mm-hm." John brought the empty pan to the sink to wash. Sherlock handed over used bowls and utensils. "There's some mild abrading as well. I haven’t seen what's under the bandages yet. We're getting x-rays today."

"We are?" Sherlock blurted. "No, I don't want to. The paramedics‒" he looked at Lestrade for back up, "‒they looked at me, they gave me pills and bandages‒"

"‒those bruises are huge and you're getting x-rayed." John told him. "This isn't an argument or a request, Sherlock." His voice rose in volume. "You could have internal hemorrhaging or hairline fractures, or, or anything. You're getting looked at today whether you like it or not! This isn't an argument!"

Silence filled the kitchen. Sherlock was scowling at John's knees and rubbing the back of his head awkwardly. Lestrade paused mid-chew, glancing between them both. John sighed.

"C'mere," he beckoned and Sherlock came to him, burying his face in John's shoulder. He hugged his sub very gently. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to shout." John soothed, petting the back of his head. "I'm not upset with you. I'm angry that those arseholes hurt you."

Sherlock hummed and rubbed his face against John's shoulder before stepping back. "I'll be off cases for a bit." He said to Greg.

"Oh, yeah. Of course." He said nothing about the shouting and stabbed a sausage. John put the pan and spatula in the sink and turned on the water to wash.

"Leave those." Greg said. He pushed the chair back, scraping along the linoleum, and wiped his mouth. He waved John away.

"Thanks." John said. He looked to his sub. "Ready to go?"

"Mmm." Sherlock put his mug in the sink and went into the other room and went to find his shoes and suitcoat. It was an odd combination‒loose, used sweats and expensive Italian shoes, but he didn't care. Neither of them had much in the way of belongings. John grabbed his suitcase handle and Greg wished them both a good day.

"I'll keep you updated on the case." He said.

"I'd appreciate that." Sherlock told him. "Thank you for allowing me to stay here. And for the coffee."

John looked pleasantly surprised, as did Greg. "Yeah, sure." He said. "No problem at all. Feel better. Thanks for the breakfast, John."

They exchanged thank yous and goodbyes and Sherlock and John took the lift down and wandered out into the sunshine. "Tube, I guess." John said. "A cab to the hospital would cost a fortune."

"John‒" Sherlock's voice was pitched slightly into a whine.

His husband eyed him severely.

"‒can't you look at me at your surgery?" He blurted. "It'll go faster and we can go home faster and I don't want _people_ touching me." He crossed his arms. The sun was warm but the air was cold, making him shiver and sweat at the same time. His back was starting to hurt again and John's used clothes were tacky on his skin. "I just," Sherlock began, he turned away from John and looked down, "want to go home."

John was quiet for a moment. His first instinct was to refuse, to back him into the wall and tell him damn well why he was going to hospital and that he was going to get examined whether he bloody liked it or not.

But.

It was Sherlock's choice. The injuries were his own, not John's, and even though if it was up to him he would force Sherlock to go to the finest hospital in the world, in reality there was absolutely nothing he could make his sub do.

"Fine." John sighed.

Sherlock kissed his forehead.

* * *

"John?!" Sarah blinked when they walked through the front door. "What are you doing here? I thought you were off with your sister?"

"I was." John said, leaning on the counter. The waiting room was crowded but no one looked up when they entered. The surgery had limited hours on Sunday, and the people who couldn't make evening appointments filled up Sundays. "Hi, Luann." He smiled at the nurse/receptionist decked out in cheery pink scrubs. She was clacking fast across the keyboard.

"Hello, Doctor Watson." She spared John a glance and smiled at Sherlock but he was staring at the floor, tired and sore.

"Sherlock was hurt." John said to Sarah. He scraped his hand across his unwashed hair. "In a case. I want to x-ray him." His voice was touched with annoyance and Sherlock knew A Conversation was going to happen in the very near future.

"Oh goodness, of course." Sarah said. "Radiology's open."

"Perfect." He leaned off the counter and opened the door that lead to the exam rooms. John brought him through the winding corridors to the x-ray machine behind a door marked 'Radiology.' He flipped on the light and pushed his suitcase out of the way and went to the machine, hitting a green button on the side and flipping a switch. The big silver machine hummed and whirred. The room smelled like latex and air con and Sherlock shivered.

"Can you undress, love?" John asked. "You can leave the sweats, but the shirt needs to come off." He pulled a gown out of a drawer and placed it on the counter. He stared at the lit up touch screen as Sherlock rustled behind him, removing his shirt. John swung the machine's arm down and adjusted the angle of the panel. Sherlock crept up to him, gown wrapped tight, and John gave him a tight smile.

"Can I see?" He asked. "I'm going to change the bandages, so those can come off."

"Yes, John."

The doctor took a deep breath. The suppressants he'd taken last night were wearing off and Sherlock was being so wonderfully obedient. His submissiveness was singing out to John's dominant side and he lifted his chin, feeling strong and in control, albeit tired.

He peeled the lint-edged bandages away and eyed the deep scratches underneath. They seemed to be healing up fine, but it was hard to tell with Sherlock's skin so bruised. The florescent light in this room wasn't geared for examining with this level of scrutiny.

John swung the x-ray arm and positioned the flat panel so it was parallel to his sub's chest. He positioned a thin lead waist-high shield behind Sherlock's legs to block the radiation. He fed a blank black screen into the chest panel and pushed a button on the machine before stepping out of the room. There was faint, high-pitched _beep._ Sherlock wished it was possible to sleep soundly while standing upright.

John came back in the room. "Turn to the side." He said. Sherlock shuffled around. John took the exposure screen out of the panel and fed a new one in. He readjusted the lead shield by his legs. "Raise your arms over your head."

Sherlock did, wincing a bit as the bruises pulled. John pursed his lips and pushed the button again and left the room. Again the machine beeped. John came back in. "Okay." He pulled the exposure out of the panel. "That's your chest sorted. Anything on your legs?" He asked.

"A  few tender spots." Sherlock said mildly. "The worst is on my ribs and back."

John looked pissed off as he tapped a few more buttons on the panel. The machine powered off. Sherlock watched his dom closely. John was going to start scolding him in three…two…one…

"What the hell happened last night?" John asked. "I told you not to do anything dangerous while I was away."

"Actually you told me not to blow the flat up or gas myself." Sherlock corrected. He forced down a smile, pleased at his own perceptive sense of timing.

"I thought the general 'stay out of danger' was implied!" John snipped.

"I didn't plan on falling down a concrete flight of steps!" Sherlock snipped back. "I didn't anticipate stairs or, or a bloody lookout."

"Why didn’t you get x-rays last night?" John asked, still scolding.

"I didn't want to. Like I said, nothing felt broken."

John took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and let it all out. "It'll take a few minutes for those exposures to be ready. Then we'll know for sure. Let's go to an exam room and I'll look you over."

Sherlock nodded and John grabbed his clothes. They stepped out of the radiology room‒

"‒Oh, Dr. Watson." Sadie, one of the weekend nurses, came out of exam room four with a bundle of cloth and rubbish. "Sarah said you could pop in and use four quickly if you need to."

"Great." John gave her a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Thanks, Sadie."

She smiled. "You're welcome." Both men walked into the room and John shut the door.

"Does she always flirt with you that much?" Sherlock's voice was petulant and small.

"Stop." John said. "She wasn't flirting. She knows we're together and she has a steady sub." John mouth twisted in disbelief. "Come on‒we're bloody married, she's a woman, _and_ she's a dom! Do you honestly think‒"

"‒No, no." Sherlock grumbled. "I don't think it." He didn't, truly. He just didn't want to be scolded at.

"You shouldn't have met with them." John said harshly. For a moment Sherlock had no idea who John was talking about but then he realized his dom had gone right back to the Barsanti Brothers. He couldn't get over how bad the nickname was. Even Diamond Duo would have been better. More accurate too…

"Hey!" John snapped. "Are you listening to me?"

"There was no reason to believe there would be any violence." Sherlock said, exasperated. "I just wanted to get a look at Dee and make absolutely sure before I told Mel anything."

John looked at him for a moment and then looked away, prowling over to the drawer and grabbing bandages and ointment.

"Can you at least wait until I've had a full night's sleep and a meal before you continue this ridiculous lecture?" Sherlock rubbed his temples and closed his eyes, trying to push away the creeping headache.

He sensed John step up close to him. He relaxed when John wrapped his arms around him in a gentle hug.

"M'sorry. I'm being a dick. I'm angry they hurt you. I'm not angry at you."

Sherlock grunted and some of his own tension melted away. It felt good to hear John say that. "It's your Defense." Sherlock said into his shoulder. He smelled of dust and old fabric and day old deodorant. Sherlock smiled and leaned back, searching his dom's face. "Your eyes are dark, your lips red." He glanced down. "You've had a partial erection since we walked into this room. You're very sexy when you're Defensive." He gave his dom a wicked little grin.

"You're hurt." John countered, his face softening. "That's why I'm Defensive. The French shite suppressant wore off an age ago."

Sherlock smiled. "I'm flattered."

"Shut-up." John said mildly. He pointed at the exam table.

"You love this." Sherlock sub sat up gingerly on the vinyl table, the paper under him crinkling.

"I don't love that you're hurt."

"You love looking me over like this." Sherlock licked his lips and tilted his head down, looking up at John. He swung his legs back and forth. John raised a brow at him and Sherlock giggled, feeling submissive and playful now despite his aching back. "You love touching me and checking me and being all doctor-y."

"Doctor-y?" John snorted and grinned. "Open this." He gestured to Sherlock's gown. He let it fall from his shoulders to his hips and John flipped on a light mounted on a movable arm beside the table. Bright, clear light flooded out of the big white bulb. He swung it around and aimed it at Sherlock's marks.

He'd seen the injuries in Greg's loo this morning, but the light in the tiny bathroom wasn't so great. The bruising had darkened in the night and Sherlock's skin was almost black-violet in places. There were red abrasions here and there but there were no lacerations or anything requiring stitches. John touched the edges of the bruises and lightly rested his hand against the marks. He didn't feel any heat or unusual lumps.

He stepped back. "Have you pissed blood?"

"Don't you think I would have said something if I had?"

John sighed. "Stand up."

Sherlock did and John pushed the gown aside and tugged the left side of his sweats and pants down. His bum cheek was bruised but not as purple as his back.

"If nothing's broken, I'll be amazed." John said. He put the pants back in place. "Sit. You'll need those bandages on for a couple days."

Sherlock sat and watched John reach for a pair of gloves.

"‒Wait." Sherlock said. He looked up at his dom. "I want to shower first. I imagine you do to. Let's go home and then you can finish."

John nodded. "Good idea."

"I really don't think anything's broken." Sherlock said mildly. He left the gown on the table and carefully pulled on the Tshirt. "I'm sore as hell but the pain isn't sharp. I know what a broken bone feels like."

"Hm. We'll see. We'll have to get about a gallon of arnica on the way home. Some food too."

John piled the bandages together and grabbed a few more packets of ointment. He stuck it all into a plastic bag and turned to his sub.

"You'll be okay with those uncovered 'til we get home?" John asked, nodding to his torso and indicating the scratches.

"Yes."

John beckoned Sherlock with a finger and they went back to radiology. The x-rays were done and both men examined them on the light board.

"Nothing looks broken." John said curiously.

Sherlock suddenly kissed his cheek and the doctor blinked in surprise.

"Let's go." Sherlock whispered. He slipped his hand into his dom's. "I want to get back in bed. Maybe eat something?"

"Yes." John turned to him. "I want to get your collar on you." He stepped closer and gave him a kiss on the stubbly jaw. He ran his arm up and down Sherlock's and licked his lips. "Get your leash on you. Remind you of who you belong to."

Sherlock shivered. "Yes, John."

"Let's get out of here."

* * *

They took the Tube back to B. John insisted that being crammed in a metal train filled with strangers wouldn't irritate his Defense any further. Sherlock noticed that John stood very close to him during the journey. He held his dom's hand, knowing it would soothe him. When they got to 221, Sherlock went upstairs with the suitcase and John picked them up some sandwiches from Speedy's. He was getting annoyed again being in such close proximity to so many strangers when his submissive was right upstairs, hurting and needing him. He didn't want to take another suppressant though. It was healthier to let the Defense run its course and he didn't plan on either he or Sherlock leaving the flat anytime soon.

He jogged back upstairs with the food and found Sherlock in the kitchen. He was wearing his sleep trousers and his dressing gown, standing in front of the near-boiling kettle. His thumbs were flying over his phone.

"Who's that?" John asked, setting the bag of food on the table.

"Melissa." Sherlock said. He put the phone on the counter. "She's ever so pleased I located Dee, but significantly less pleased that her sister is apparently a jewel thief." His collar was loose on his neck. John hooked two fingers under it and tugged gently and Sherlock bent his head to kiss him.

"I'm proud of you for solving it. For solving both cases in one go, genius."

"Well, I, it was luck." Sherlock said, his ears pinking. John grinned. Sherlock always got so flustered when his intelligence was praised, even after all this time. It was adorable.

"Hungry?" John asked.

"Oh God, yes."

"Sit. Eat. I'll get us tea."

Sherlock unpacked the food and sat. John poured them both tea. He would have liked to feed Sherlock, to really draw it out and indulge them both but they were just too tired and worn out from the past twenty four hours. They ate in silence, as neither man seemed to realize how hungry he was until there were pastrami and mustard and ham sandwiches in their hands.

They mutually left the rubbish on the table and went to the bathroom and stripped everything off. John eyed his marks again as Sherlock stepped into the tub. His dominance surged at the sight of his hurt, naked sub. "A cool shower." John said. "Heat won't be good for your skin."

"Yes, John."

The doctor made the water lukewarm and grabbed the shampoo. He washed Sherlock, lathering his hair and rinsing. He soaped up his sub's chest and stomach and bits and arse. He carefully smoothed his hands over his sore back. Sherlock winced as the water and soap stung his scrapes.

"Sorry, love." John murmured. His voice was deeper than normal. He rinsed his sub and rubbed the bar of soap over his own body.

"Let me." Sherlock mumbled into his ear. He plucked the shampoo bottle and squeezed a dollop into John's hair. He groaned in pleasure as Sherlock scrubbed fingers across his scalp. "You've been going for hours." Sherlock said. "You barely slept last night. Let me do this…"

"Oh…ah‒okay..." John closed his eyes as Sherlock frankly massaged his head. His cock, already awake from the Defense, stiffened in delight. John heard Sherlock grunt in pain as he reached to grab the showerhead to better rinse the shampoo away. They weren't saying much. Both of them wanted to just go to bed and sleep properly. Once John was rinsed, Sherlock reached again to put the showerhead back, but John took it and did it for him.

They stumbled into the bedroom and Sherlock laid down naked and warm in the sheets. His bruises looked darker now after the shower. John applied the ointment and bandages and arnica to his back. They curled up under the sheets and Sherlock plastered himself to John's front, hugging him and clinging to him almost desperately. John kissed his forehead and rubbed his hand up and down his back in broad, even strokes.

"Just sleep." John murmured. "We don't have to get out of bed for the next two days if you don't want to."

"Not possible." Sherlock countered. His voice was muffled from being pressed into John's shirt. "We'll have to use the toilet eventually, not to mention drink and eat."

John paused his strokes, his hand on Sherlock's arse. "You know what I mean, cheeky." He said. He felt Sherlock smile against him.

"Thank you for coming home so fast." He said quietly. "I'm glad you did."

John hugged him a little closer. "Always, love."

They both fell asleep, peaceful in each other's arms.

End.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :) Comments and kudos always appreciated.


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